


Gonna Sink Too Far (Bed's Too Soft)

by convolutedConcussion



Series: This Could Be Okay [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: I'm not good at tags, M/M, Post-Winter Soldier, bucky pov, mentions of other Avengers, serious lack of dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 14:22:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1513694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which bare feet are weighted and so are questions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gonna Sink Too Far (Bed's Too Soft)

**Author's Note:**

> Um, so, this series isn't so much a series as a bunch of snapshots. I'm not sure where I'm going on if it's even linear at this point.
> 
> So basically this can be read as a stand-alone, if you want.
> 
> Um, but for reference, it takes place some time after What The Hell Am I?
> 
> Again, I have no clue what I'm doing.

Steve thinks he's a flight risk.

It's one of those nagging, recurring thoughts, a nasty little thing that burrows deeper and deeper, and he's no stranger to these, but somehow it's this one that sneaks up on him at odd moments. It comes to him when he catches Steve looking at him over dinner, or watching him instead of reading, or getting that look like he's thinking of days that Bucky—and the name still feels so weird on his tongue—still can't remember. There's something significant in that, in knowing that the other man feels dread that he'll leave and not come back, or go and do something reckless, get himself killed. It makes his mouth feel like dust.

It's significant, but he can't tell why.

The gaps in his memory are breaking apart, and he can almost make out who he used to be in looking through the cracks. What he can remember seems to change from day to day. The past is a dream or a movie he can't quite recall. He's afraid and fear settles alien and cold in his gut.

It's easier to know what is now.

Here is what he knows:

He knows how the others feel about him. Knows that Steve thinks he's a flight risk but believes in his ability to come back to himself—a version of himself he doesn't know. Knows that Sam Wilson doesn't trust him and shouldn't, but says nothing; he is there, though, just in case something comes up that Steve can't handle alone.

That Dr. Banner pities him and thinks he needs help. That Stark is intrigued by his arm and is, like Wilson, prepared to deal with him if he were to become a problem. He knows that Barton identifies with him in a quiet way—Steve told him that story—but he's wary.

He feels the tension in their smiles and tones, not quite fear but a close thing. Even in Steve, he can sense that.

He knows that he keeps Steve awake at night, in a very literal way. It had never been his intention that night to live with the man. He imagines now that he must have been searching for clarity. That night, for the first time since he can remember, he bathed himself, he was pushed into comfortable cotton pajamas, and he fell into a bed that felt like a cloud and he _slept._ He slept and he didn't dream and when asked later he couldn't say how long it had been since he had last. _(Weapons don't sleep, they work.)_ Steve told him later that he slept for a solid twenty hours. Since that night, though, he can't sleep in that bed.

His footfalls are silent but they keep the other man awake. The click and whirr of the machinery in his arm, before now just background noise, so quiet and insignificant that he never considered it before, is deafening in the midnight quiet. He cannot silence himself and he keeps Steve up.

There are things that come to him that surprise him, like that he can play piano or that he can cook. Small skills, skills he must have had when he was Bucky, must have had before he was a weapon. Other things are less clear—can he stitch because at once there was a time when his clothes needed to last him longer than a few tears would permit or did he need to know in case of injuries on a mission?

These and others are questions he's not sure he wants answered.

At their last “appointment,” Dr. Banner had said, after several moments of silence, “I don't know why the rest of them treat me like a psychiatrist. I'm not. I don't specialize in even a tangentially psychological field. But I think you're angry and I know about anger. And not knowing where you've been or who you are but knowing you've done something awful.” He'd hesitated, sighed, hunched forward. “There's a lot that probably only time can deal with, a lot that you're gonna have to confront at some point, and some of it you won't be able to deal with alone. I still think you should see someone, but I also think you should look in to channeling your energy. Yoga's good for that—really, anything that makes you keep your mind focused on something other than trying to break itself apart, but... Give it a try. That's not, like... prescriptive advice or anything. Just the regular kind.”

He finds he doesn't like instruction videos. The tone is supposed to be calming, he assumes, but it puts him on edge. After a day or so, he ends up with a book (through perhaps less than legal means) and that's better. In the quiet, or sometimes with the radio on, the gentle stretch of his muscles, the slow shift, timing his breath, it brings him something like calm in the confused chaos—in the blaring unfamiliar and nagging familiar. It brings him focus, forces tight muscles to redirect. It doesn't bring him clarity, but it's something to do.

The door clicks open, whispers closed, and he can identify Steve's footsteps without having to open his eyes. But they stop, and a mix of curiosity and distaste at the vulnerability makes him roll to his feet and look up. The other's got this look on his face that makes him tilt his head, confused. “Sorry,” Steve mumbles. “I didn't know you were...” His gaze flits down to Bucky's bare feet and he frowns slightly.

Though smiles still feel foreign, he manages to quirk his lips and it feels faintly stupid. “It's fine,” he grunts. “I'm done.” The knowledge that his brevity makes Steve uncomfortable gnaws at him. “I... How... was your day?”

Something about it makes Steve snort and embarrassment creep up his neck. “I was looking at apartments. I... thought if—if you were thinking of staying, it might be a good idea to have two bedrooms,” he breathes with feigned ease. After a pause he adds, almost coaxing, “So, are you thinking of staying?”


End file.
